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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28946787">Death of Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinesLycan/pseuds/PinesLycan'>PinesLycan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gravity Falls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Ford Pines Never Went Through The Portal, Angst, Ford Pines is a Jerk, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, oneshot? more like longshot lol</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:40:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,816</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28946787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinesLycan/pseuds/PinesLycan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>I got lost in the travels of a book, missed the beaches and the way that they look, the riddles in the pages leaving at too much to guess. I appear even tempered, but looks will deceive, the sparks always flying, because you drink for relief. With the heart of a child and the wit of a fool, it's a wonder why I don't try to build a wall around you. A selfish pain that returns as a thought: is this the best that I can do?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ford Pines &amp; Stan Pines</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Death of Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They’re arguing with the special kind of intensity that comes after the fourth beer of the night; fuming and groggy and both of them just <em> so </em> absolutely fucking <em> right</em>. </p><p>Stan had left the house a lot the first week after his initial arrival. On that first day: a fist fight and subsequent pulling of Ford by the waist out of a portal of his own creation. The older twin was going on and on about clairvoyance and precognition - saying cryptic things about eyes watching him; how his brain was turning against him. Not able to handle Ford’s frantic pacing around the shack and sheer display of insanity, Stan left in favor of the gas station. When he came back, the place was an even worse mess, and his brother was in the basement taking a hatchet to the machinery that almost swallowed him alive. A pat on the back and a bag of groceries got them upstairs and in the habit of staying up late, chugging beers, catching up on the ten years they had been away from one another. It had started off well, they’d get foggy, crack some jokes, and go their separate ways for the night, but Ford has never been known to simply settle for anything. His very nature set him off to build a trans-universal gateway that tore through the very fabrics of reality. Someone with that kind of determination, <em> smarts</em>, is bound to find something as domestic as living day to day in a cabin nestled in the Oregon woods, boring. It simply wasn’t an option for someone like Stanford, not a part of the equation, and that’s what led to tonight. </p><p>It’s always the fourth beer. Go to any bar and you can see two guys plastered out of their minds, dueling it out with fists or heated words about politics and morality - the worst is when it’s about the past. Stanford often finds his head screaming, ‘<em>Who even cares? Who even cares?!’ </em> He’s the damn fool that cares, he knows it all too well. The fact that Stan ruined his chances at going to West Coast Tech torments his psyche. It’s the kind of pain that can’t even turn into hate or resentment, because it would be <em> so much easier </em>if he hated Stanley and that was that. Stanford finds himself in the dialectical dilemma of having an overwhelming lack of interest in the past, but it's the type of disengagement that’s a defense against pain; against sadness. Ford wants to care so little about the past that it’s exactly what makes him sad about it - it hurts him deep down in ways that are hard even to name, much less talk about. It would be so much easier to roll his eyes and not give a shit. He wants to bore himself to death of his past so much it preempts any inquiry, but with his IQ, inquiry always comes. </p><p>Stanford has heard professors say the core mandate of science is asking questions time and time again. They’re usually about regularities in the working universe, trying to explain how the regularities illuminate and reflect laws of nature - allowing predictions to be verified through experiments and observation. It seems reasonable enough, except that it glosses over the fact that the actual process of science is much messier. Asking the right questions is just as important as finding and testing the proposed answers; and questions aren’t just floating in a preexisting realm where you can pick them off one by one. Ford knows this better than anyone, it’s why he so long ago left paradigm theory and sought out the phenomena of anomalies. And maybe that’s what the words that slide off his drunken tongue are, another anomaly. </p><p>“Why’d you do it Stanley?,” It comes out sort of slurred, the buzz from the alcohol can almost be felt in the air surrounding the words. </p><p>“Dun what, Sixer?” Stan asks, a look of total blankness on his face, clueless of any answer to Ford’s vague question. He’s definitely less gone than his brother, years of binge drinking bringing his tolerance up higher than one should ever be proud of. There’s a sweltering tension hanging in the room, like a summer’s day where the heat waves can be seen rising off the sidewalk. It feels like it could easily stay, go unnoticed and unmentioned, but heat is hard to ignore when it’s burning skin. </p><p>“Why did you ruin my science fair project?”</p><p> </p><p>All those years of asking the right questions to get him all those doctorates, and that was the question he came up with - the one that was going to solve and bring closure to his emotional turmoil towards his brother once and for all; yeah, right. There’s cursing and swearing, stomping feet on the floor, arms being swept up and crossed as yelling flies back and forth, tossed around like a game of catch, thrown right back to the other when it’s caught. </p><p>“I’ve told you a trillion fuckin’ times, it was an <em> accident! </em>Ever heard of ‘em?!,” Stan shouts viciously, barking like a dog as he repeats himself for the umpteenth time. </p><p>“Accidents like that don’t just <em> happen</em>. You never would have told me if I hadn’t figured it out myself,” Stanford is clenching his fists, the fight with his brother completely invigorating every possible synapse in his body. The pain is bubbling to the surface and he can’t let Stanley know, he just can’t let his twin know how much it all gnaws at him ten years later. Somewhere in his head, he has the little thought that maybe this isn’t even about his dream school anymore. He already has his twelve Phds, already found huge amounts of research and discoveries some couldn’t even fathom - won awards, has grant money at his disposal, a couple of research labs. Ford is well off, even haven’t gone to West Coast Tech; so why, <em> why </em>does this still hurt? </p><p> </p><p>“How do <em>you</em> know that?” </p><p>Stanford falters at the words, but is quick to think per usual. Isn’t that what had happened? His brother, ever so clumsy, had left pretty damning evidence at the scene of the crime, and not once said a word about it. That day had happened so fast. Ford remembers seeing the toffee peanuts, the snack he so absolutely despised, and came home that evening to Stanley, happy as ever - like a criminal that got away with the master plan, bringing with him the gold. </p><p>“You left your disgusting toffee nuts there, you asshole! <em> Who else </em> eats those things? You never denied it. You still aren’t denying it! So <em> why?</em>,” There’s tears brimming in his eyes, he can feel them stinging his vision. Since when did he cry? Ford hates this, every second of it. </p><p>Stanley is looking at him with a gaze he’s never seen before. It’s one that immediately locks in with his own - immense pain. It’s intensity is something Ford can barely look at, it makes it hard to breathe, air suddenly gaining a tremendous weight in the atmosphere. He can’t keep eye contact, but tries his best, because there is no backing down from this second fight; this is the fight he’s been waiting for. This is his one chance to get an answer, to maybe, <em> just maybe</em>, rid himself of this sadness that consumes his past.</p><p>Of all his faults, Ford’s need to be right and the absolute center of the universe is the real destroyer of his own happiness. While he likes to think he’s above human nature, Stanford doesn’t even scratch the surface of being anything but. Humans hate this type of self absorbed thinking so much because it comes so naturally - it’s socially unacceptable for being quite unpleasant at the dinner table. There is absolutely no experience that Stanford has had in the past ten years that hasn’t been centered around himself, and it comes so easily with his academic education, that readily allows him to over-intellectualize everything. He gets completely lost in abstract arguments in his head, rather than doing the real simple work of paying attention to what’s in front of him, or noticing what is going on inside of him. </p><p>It's easy to see how the exact same experience can mean two different things to two different people; each one has their own template for constructing meaning based on experience. Many think the template for meaning is automated, that naturally someone is inclined to think one way and that’s how they will be, because that’s who they are. The hard truth is that everyone is identical in the belief that they are different from everyone else, so it is all an intentional choice; thinking. The meanings that are applied to human experience are not absorbed into the brain like language or culture. People choose how to think about everything, and this is where Ford has failed Stan; so conceited in the idea that he is absolutely certain he knows his twin at this very point in time or even knew him ten years ago. It's the kind of close-mindedness that leads to self imprisonment so totalitarian the prisoner doesn’t even know he’s been jailed.</p><p> </p><p>“I was scared of losing you.” </p><p> </p><p>Being wrong is an experience someone hardly ever forgets, evolution itself punishing mistakes and favoring correct mannerism for the sake of survival. Shivers go up Stanford’s spine as he gapes at his twin, and for the first time in a long while, he’s at a complete and utter loss for what to say. Of all the inner monologues going on in his head he was going to pick up from, there is none for this statement. He watches Stan gulp down the rest of whatever is left of his beer, long brunette hair falling back and then forward as he goes to trash the can. He walks past his older brother, striding up the stairs to his attic bedroom, retiring for the night just like how their evenings now usually go. </p><p>Standing there, dumbfounded, Ford takes a breath and blinks a few times, then goes to throw away his half-full beer. He never gets much sleep, instead he settles himself on the couch and picks up a book, thumbing through pages, but not <em> really </em>reading. His mind keeps wandering to those words that came off his sibling’s lips, how hurt they sounded. Stanford thinks about that night all the way back in their teens, replaying it over and over. He remembers the look that Stanley had given him from the concrete below and how he had closed the blinds. In that mere second, Stan disappeared from his life. The look of Stan then and now are uncannily similar, but strikingly different. Ford thinks longer, feeling the enormous, monstrous thought of his own existence come at him, and he’s thinking about how weird it is that he has twelve fingers and is on a rock floating in space that’s very conveniently placed for life. He thinks about his twenties and then expectedly, memories of the madness that had ensued once he got to Gravity Falls. It sends a shudder throughout his body, a grim reminder that his existentialist ego is the biggest son of a bitch, and vaguely wonders if Bill is around to hear that thought. His fingers stop turning pages, and eyes stop skimming words. </p><p><em> Ten years</em>. He knows what he’s been through, but what had Stan been up to? </p><p>Stanford had been certain that Stanley was up to nothing extraordinary, maybe at the worst homeless for a time, but it was probably manageable, right? It’s this thought that is the most disappointing to Ford. He’s being so arrogant and pretentious about this, and he sees it for the first time since he opened the cabin's front door to his mulleted brother. The oddly critical awareness he has gained of himself after four cans of beer are making him ponder what he truly believes are his certainties. Tonight, he’s noticing that a large percent of his automatic certainties about his brother are turning out to be totally wrong - deluded, even. This is what ultimately brings him to walk up a steep double staircase, bring a six fingered hand to the attic door, tapping gently - shyly waiting for a response. </p><p>Stan answers, but doesn't say anything, looking at Ford with tired eyes and complete detachment. </p><p>“May I...c-can I come in?," Stanford stammers out. There’s a distant, forlorn stare between them both, but the door opens wider in a silent yes, and Ford walks in with the grace of a newborn baby deer. The scent of alcohol is strong and it hits him in the face the second he’s fully in the room. Stan still isn’t saying anything as he strolls towards the window, a bottle sitting on its sill. With Stan’s back turned to Ford, the silence is awkward and so tense it would take a knife sharp as nails to cut through. Ford takes in the environment, hoping maybe there’s some kind of knickknack to make fun of, to break the silence and lessen the weight crushing him to the floor. The room is a mess, but compared to the rest of the shack it could probably be a close second to the cleanest. Brown eyes are scanning the small terrain. There’s a mattress without a bedframe in the corner of the room, a burlap sack thrown in another, scatters of some probably unwashed clothing spilled out onto the wood floor; the floor -  it’s littered in bottles of various spirits.</p><p>“What’s with all this?” A vague gesture to the space around them, ”I thought you stopped drinking when I did.” </p><p>“An' I thought maybe you would’ve gone to bed by now, but we’re both wrong, huh?” Stan gripes, picking up the bottle at his side and bringing it to his lips, chugging the contents with a fizz. No liquid remains when Stanley turns to finally face his brother, bringing a hand up to drop the bottle onto the ground with a thud that’s amplified a thousand times by the silence. Stanford bristles at the maneuver, brows furrowing into a scowl. </p><p>“What the <em> hell </em>is your problem?” He remarks, walking in closer towards his brother.</p><p>Stanley starts laughing. It’s cold, and bitter, and sounds more as if someone had stabbed him in the side and he was recoiling from the damage. “<em>My </em>problem? Never knew you were able to be so fuckin’ funny!” The younger, albeit taller, sibling is moving away from the window, going over to the mattress and pulling out another flask that was tucked away. The cap is popped off, flung to the floor, and Stan once again is tilting his head back as he gulps down more booze. Stanford is seeing red.</p><p>“Stanley, you’ve had four beers, an entire bottle of vodka, and now you’re onto whiskey. If you’re trying to poison yourself, can you kindly do it elsewhere?” The tone of Ford’s voice is more than frustrated and ice cold. </p><p>Now empty, the flask hits the floor with a clatter, “Oh, <em> you </em>would jus’ love that! Stanley Pines, thirty one, dead at fuckin’ Greasy’s Diner! Good riddance.” </p><p>When Stan moves to pick up yet another container of alcohol, Ford’s feet slam across wooden planks, hands grabbing his younger brother’s wrists and pulling them above his head. Identical, deep, fiery auburn eyes meet, sparks flying between the two in a heated unspoken anger. Stanley is too drunk by now to fight properly, uselessly struggling against his brother’s hold, who doesn’t let go - he just holds him there with his twelve fingers like a pair of handcuffs. If he wasn't so far gone, fighting Stanford would be easy, seeing as he looks like he hasn't eaten in a month. </p><p>“Ugh- <em> Stanford! </em>Fucking- let go of me!” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Ford asserts, but feels himself cracking, looking at his brother’s face. He hasn’t been this close to him in ten years. There’s scruff on his chin, long hair resting on his shoulders, and a new kind of look in his eyes that wasn’t there when they were kids or even teenagers. The look reflects a kind of agony that speaks volumes to Ford. <em> 'I'm never letting you go again,' </em> he thinks. With nothing to lose and nothing to gain, the shield of apathy that has been being held so close finally is pushed aside, breaking away into little pieces. The tears well up, cascading down, “I’m not going to let you drink yourself to death.” </p><p>All the grappling is pointless, but Stan’s hellbent on wiggling his way out of Ford’s grasp. It simply isn’t going to happen - he’s too inebriated to get his legs to work, can’t find the strength in them to kick, and his thoughts are strung together in confusing waves of meaningless drunken monologue. His befuddled brain is shouting at him to stop, <em>to let this happen</em>, let his brother intervene, but for every rational voice there’s others screaming to grab something - a drink, a weapon - but he’s far too gone to make any kind of effective movement. Stan gives his all in a last few sharp jabs left and right to try and put distance between him and his twin, before he goes limp. He looks into Ford’s crying eyes, and gives up, head hanging down to his chest. Stanford watches the display, letting the tears spill out at the pitiful state his brother is in. He thinks about when he first saw him, so intact at the front door, and compares that image to the one in front of him. Stanley is a fragment of himself, and Ford wants to know what or <em> who </em>did this to him. Slowly, he lets go of his wrists, and neither of them move a muscle. Sucking in a breath, Ford puts a hand on Stan’s shoulder. </p><p>“Sit with me,” It’s not a command, more of a plea. </p><p>They saunter over to the mattress together, sitting down with little space between them. It would be really easy for Ford to ask questions, because it has always been easy. This time though, he isn’t talking, isn’t in his head - he’s just <em> here </em>and he’s listening. </p><p>“I wasn’t trying to...I didn’t want you to see...,” Stan says after a bit of time has passed by, “the drinkin’s a habit I picked up in Mexico.”</p><p>Ford deadpans, “New Mexico?” </p><p>“I’ve been all over the country, <em> the world</em>, poindexter.” </p><p>It jogs memories to their first fight, the evening when Stanley arrived. Stanford goes cold when he remembers the conversation, how his brother had told him he’d been in prison in three different countries and apparently once had chewed his way out of the trunk of a car. There’s more disappointment on Ford’s end for ignoring those comments, and completely forgetting about them until now. How could he simply gloss over that? At the time yes, he had been partially estranged, but still. </p><p>When on the brink of something important in science, the questions and actions start to become easier to grasp onto, becoming less methodical and more fluid. Answers will always lead to more questions, starting the process over and over again, and that’s the beauty of it - it’s never-ending discovery. </p><p>“What happened in Mexico?” The question is quiet, for the first time since their reunion, not taking on any kind of accusatory tone. </p><p>There’s a chuckle, a sad one, that reeks of regret and shame, “What <em> didn’t </em>happen in Mexico? After the goddamn heist went wrong in Colombia, Rico wasn’t too pleased with me. Said I oughta get myself to Guerrero and lay low as soon as I’m busted out. From there my jobs got me closer to the US border. Sonora,” Each word comes out and leaves a horrid taste in Stan’s mouth. </p><p>The nature of guilt is a slippery slope for Stan. Stuck between showing to the world that he will be who he is, and a weight on his shoulders he wouldn’t place on his worst of enemies. He often wonders if there is any inner relationship between guilt and gold, because it’s a very true saying, that money is the root of all evil. Guilt had led him to the idea of money being his saving grace so easily it hardly had to try. Anything good never comes <em>that</em> easy. Stan thinks about when he was thrown out, and having a job. What even is a job? Most probably would say it’s some simple work you do in order to make money and have basic needs met. What he’s really been doing is unpleasantries for the sole purpose of making money. <em> More and more and more money. </em> </p><p>There are always ‘jobs’ because there’s always dirty work that one does not wish to do themselves and therefore will pay someone else to do it. Money became the goal, and when you work that way, you begin to confuse it with happiness and pleasure. It was absurd how many times Stanley could have done something better about a situation. Instead of doing something practical to change anything about what he was doing, he pled guilty, and that resorted to all sorts of symbolic methods of expiation - drinking, crime, swearing to repay those he owes. Every single one was always not dealing with the problem, but simply helping him feel alright about it. Guilt invariably produces that sort of reaction, it’s a destructive emotion. His past, he had done something wrong, made a mistake, and he had run around licking the sores of a wounded ego, because it <em> hurts</em>. It hurts and there’s no way getting out of it. </p><p>The road to hell is paved with good intentions. </p><p>“Sonora is where things started getting real bad. <em> Shit</em>, I haven’t been a saint, but,” Suddenly the bed is shaking, Stan gripping at himself in a kind of self soothing gesture, “I didn’t want to do it anymore. I was...trafficking people across the border. What the cartel won’t tell you is the land is called ‘the corridor of death.’ Those people...they’d <em> die</em>, Ford. An’ we got paid real well to do it.” </p><p>There’s silence again, except for maybe the sound of Stanford’s heart hammering against his ribcage. His gaze is situated on his twin, who is falling apart at the seams - his face is in his hands, chest heaving with every taken breath. Heart heavy in his chest, Ford puts a hand on Stan’s leg, a reassuring gesture to show that he was still with him, even with the confession of cartels and deaths of innocent immigrants turning the dimly lit room darker than dark. He hates watching his brother try to fight off these demons alone. He hates that he turned Stanley into a straw man - he hates that the <em>what or who</em> that did this to his brother is <em>him</em>. </p><p>“When I got close nuff to the border, I hopped the fence and ran. Course, the cartel goons would track me down. I owe them a shit ton of money, so I was skippin' states a lot. It’s funny how small an amount of cash you get when in something like that. Think the scratch cards were better, sometimes I’d get a twenty and hey that’s...,” Stanley trails off, fidgeting in his place. His hands reach into his pockets and he pulls out a single peso, an amount that can’t even compare to the worth of a penny. His finger is rubbing it, feeling the engraved details, studying it’s every groove, and there’s a shaky breath before he slips it back into his parka.</p><p>“You were right about one thing, sixer,” Glassy brown irises are turning to look into matching, pouring espresso ones, “I like to take shortcuts, an’ they get me in trouble.” </p><p>Stanford swallows a lump in his throat he didn’t even know was there, memories of them exploring a cave in search of the Jersey devil in their youth flashing in his mind. He had doubted Stanley then - their trust had been broken that day. Ford remembers taking a small oath to not defend his brother so carelessly anymore. </p><p>Then there’s this sudden liberating thought, about the both of them. That they don’t need to take it all so seriously. Stanford thinks about the universe, about maybe if there’s someone out there telling him, 'hey this, what you call <em> life</em>, is just play - a game.' He sees it clear as day that if things continue to be so serious, they’re going to start destroying each other and fighting, because they both are so involved in their own lives. They don’t have to join in, don’t have to play the game, or at least not alone. They have never belonged anywhere but with each other. While some people are absolutely enthralled with the game - as they should, it’s working fine for them - there has to be people who stand outside. It doesn’t take any thought, the image of Stanley accidently breaking his perpetual motion machine seems completely logical and fathomable and forgivable, and nothing of what Stan has confided to him makes him feel hatred; no, what Ford feels now is loathing for himself, giving up on his brother so easily. </p><p>For the first time, the possibility that Ford is completely and totally selfish is considered. When he finds himself wondering,<em> ‘what do I want?’ </em>it has become an increasingly ever-deepening puzzle over the years. What are his motivations? He files through his thoughts, trying to find out that thing that is <em> really </em> genuine. He goes in and in and in - then he realizes he’s fooling himself with thoughts, playing life like he’s there when he’s not - having someone take his role call while he's busy thinking of something else. A trap of a routine that he had gotten stuck in and couldn’t get out of. That's the truest truth, and it should set him free, but it's not finished with him. </p><p>“Why didn’t you call me?” </p><p> </p><p>There’s an uncomfortable shift, Stan moving away and Ford misses the contact of their legs touching. “I wanted to. Almost did, a couple of times. But I…I swore up an' down to myself I would never show up to you without the money to your dream school. I felt so bad, so <em> fucking bad </em>about it Stanford, I-”</p><p>Whatever it was that was going to be said is lost as Stanford leans over, gently grabbing one of Stanley’s hands, and hugs him. It’s chaste, ending almost as soon as it began, and they’re staring at each other with those hands cradled between them - both equally entranced in the other's face. It says <em> ‘I love you’ </em>without it being somewhat disconcerting or automatically suspected as a little bit phony. It’s not the kind of holy love that angelic beings sing about in the heavens above, but more of a love so intense, so soul crushing, they could be the ouroboros and devour itself. They love each other so much that their self destruction can’t be helped. If Ford is selfish, then he’s lost now, gone. It’s the death of me, because he only ever knew ‘me’ in terms of ‘you.’ </p><p>“You don’t have to apologize anymore, Stanley.” </p><p> </p><p>They’re both crying harder when the second hug comes, Stan resting his forehead against Ford’s. Ford holds him there for some time, running fingers through his brother’s stupidly charming mullet, uttering soft shushes. At one point they pull apart, so Ford can put his tear spotted glasses on the nightstand, coming back together in an even tighter embrace. Everything that happens is in some way right, and an integral part of the universe. There are no wrong feelings. There may be wrong actions in the sense of actions contrary to the rules of human communication, but there aren't any wrong feelings. Yet, both men are immensely threatened to feel in any case, terrified of feelings, because they can take off on their own and maybe lead into all sorts of chaos and destructive actions. They’re reminded of this, when Ford’s hand brushes against Stan’s right shoulder, and a choked off cry resounds in the air. Pulling away quickly, deep russet eyes are wide and startled. </p><p>“Wh-what happened? Stanley, are you okay?” Stanford’s words are frantic, hands uselessly grabbing at nothing but the draft in the room, too afraid to reach out to his twin.</p><p>“It’s fine! It’s- it’s okay, I’m <em> okay </em> poindexter,” Stan reassures with a slight hiss from clenched teeth, “Ya jus' touched my burn.” </p><p>Ford feels like a rock has hit him in the chest. He remembers watching Stanley’s face contort in what looked to be excruciating pain, before falling to the ground of the lab. How his twin had managed to pull him out of the portal, despite the injury, he has no clue. Self loathing starts to arise in his solar plexus - he was so busy trying to make sense of the things he saw in the portal, he completely neglected Stan. </p><p>“Did you ever treat it?” His question is answered when Stan twists, showing a hole in his jacket just big enough to reveal the rune marking <em> watch your step </em>branded into flesh underneath. It’s still red and puffy, irritated, and most definitely permanently scarred. </p><p>“You really should cover it, it could still get infected,” Stanford is getting up, coming around to face his brother and takes a hold of the maroon fabric, “Let me.” </p><p>The stained and torn up parka is slipped off, then a grey shirt, leaving Stanley shirtless and vulnerable on the bed. A strangled gulp comes from Ford, whose eyes go over the other’s upper half. There’s various scars, some more ghastly than others. Stanley moves to cover his belly, which has gotten even more pudgy over the years, in a timid, self-conscious manner. Stanley's entire demeanor changed into a harrowed husk of a man. There’s so much Ford wants to ask, but it’s not the right time. Another part of him also doesn't want the knowledge, fully well aware of the anger that would rise up from the pits of his stomach. There may never be a right time. The clothing is neatly set on the bed, Stanley sitting uncomfortably with a look of melancholy over his face. There’s no point in analyzing the other's position right now, so Ford goes off to gather a cool wash cloth and petroleum jelly from the bathroom across the hall. He comes back, glad to see Stan’s not drinking himself into a stupor and simply sitting there. </p><p>“Took ya long enough, I’m starting to get cold,” The younger jokes, giving a small smile that comes and goes much too quick. </p><p>“Sorry, I had to make sure the towel was soaked enough,” Stanford replies, moving back to the mattress, items in hand. The cloth is pressed against Stan’s shoulder with a gentle caress. </p><p>“Feels nice,” Stanley hums. </p><p>“I bet it does. It was red and swelling before,” The cloth is removed and six fingers start to rub the jelly into the patch of skin, “It seems to be going down now.” </p><p>There’s no words as Ford’s fingers work diligently to get the gel to absorb into the burned tissue, but the thoughts are loud and keep coming to him. <em> ‘You did this. This is your fault. This is permanent, this is a third degree burn, and it only happened because you were selfish. You couldn’t let up, couldn’t let go, and Stanley paid for it. He’s been paying the price for ten years. He’s done so much for you. What have you ever done for him? What have you ever done for anyone but yourself? Selfish. Selfish. Selfish-’ </em></p><p>“Hey,” A gentle, gruff voice.</p><p>Stanford is snapped out of his trance, hand caught in midair by another, and he’s staring into chestnut colored eyes. Then, there’s a pleasant pressure against his body, and Stanley is squeezing him. Stanford makes a sobbing noise in the back of his throat, pushing his face into his brother's neck as his hands find their way around Stan's torso. It's tight, a vice for trying to keep something from breaking or spilling out - trying to keep each other together. Stanford is gone again, in this moment he couldn’t form a single coherent thought if he wanted to. There's nothing to think about, only weeping. He’s gripping at his brother, body gasping with cries, woes, follies of a lifetime. This is it - this is confession, redemption. Freedom. </p><p>Stan detaches, still holding Ford’s hand, and simply looks over the face of his twin.</p><p>Ford looks right back at Stanley and feels a wave of emotions hit him at once. </p><p>After all these ten years, it feels odd to look into these cavernous pools of carob eyes; it's like missing someone you aren't even sure you know. The time they spent separated stings with unfairness, all that time that could have been shared, all these burdens of Stan's maybe avoided if Ford hadn't shut him out. There's a painful knowledge to gain from trying to learn from what is unfair. Both of them have been abusing substance; alcohol and thinking. Serious trouble for both of them - very serious trouble. <em>Deadly </em> serious trouble, because both of them were so into these substances that gave them the relief from everything, and now the masks on their faces are slipping - they're no longer getting high, neither able to get drunk or sober, instead attending black mass. It's like the maws of a great beast have opened, and from it all kinds of nightmares are crawling inside, but at the very back of the gullet lies something <em> so irresistible</em>. God knows both of them would crawl into it, grasping at that substance, and they'd be had - swallowed whole. The enemy and the comfort, the personal hells that have gotten them both wrapped in undeniable <em>trouble</em>. </p><p>Stanford doesn't want to be in hell, he doesn't want to keep crawling into the mouth of a monster in search of thoughts and ideas to keep demons at bay, and he sure doesn't want Stanley to curl up with a bottle inside of a casket to feel better. If they are to be eaten at all, it's going to have to be the kind of messy teeth gnashing that either ends life or turns it around. </p><p> </p><p>"Hey brainiac."</p><p>Ford's head turns to look at Stanley with a questioning swirl in his pupils. </p><p>"What do you get when ya try to cross an insomniac, an unwilling agnostic, and a dyslexic?"</p><p>A small chuckle at how ridiculous the question is, "I give." Stanford says, never able to decipher any of his twin's jokes, even having heard them a great many times sitting on a swing set, on a beach, a lifetime ago.</p><p>"Ya get someone that stays up all night torturing himself mentally on whether or not there's a dog." </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you, dear reader, enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Kudos and comments are always appreciated! You can message me on Tumblr (https://darkwoodwolf.tumblr.com), too. Send me all the questions, prompts, and anon hate you desire; I read it all :)</p><p>-Literature I used to help guide in the process are as follows: 'The Hidden Reality' by Brian Greene, 'Consider the Lobster' and 'This is Water' by David Foster Wallace.</p><p>-Song inspo for the work description: Half Moon Run - Full Circle.</p><p>-No beta for this, please tell me if there's mistakes :')</p></blockquote></div></div>
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